Negligence
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: Lancelot is ill, neglected, and it's got to be bloody winter. Some light angst, but mostly fluff.A oneshot between Lancelot and Arthur.Please RR! Thank you!


A/N: Well, this is a small thing. Fluff, and some light angsting at first. Hope you like it! Hopefully, I'll start up another KA Long Piece soon. We'll see. NO SLASH! Please R/R!

Feel free give me requests for One-Shots and get me off my lazy ass. Heh.

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_Negligence_

Lancelot wondered, as he looked at the white flower with its small petals. He wondered if he could possibly be any worse off. Here he was, in the middle of a wintering Britain, sure that his condition was a slow death. He had been sick for a week, worsening by the day, hiding it for as long as possible. Only Tristan had given him glances on the second day, silently threatening to tell the others unless Lancelot did it himself. He was surprised his comrade hadn't said anything by now. Galahad had asked about his well being yesterday, after Lancelot had given a long series of coughs when they had been starting a fire alone. Of course, the older knight assured it was nothing, and the equally impulsive Galahad had not pressed anymore. Lancelot had tried to ignore himself up until now, when he had to at last admit that he was sick enough to warrant attention. He sighed. He loathed being sick. He would rather be wounded, for at least then he was troubled by an honorable cause. He hadn't been ill for two winters, at least, but the last one had brought a serious wound. Curse the weather, he thought. If he weren't on this damn island, where it always rained or snowed, he wouldn't be disturbed. But the fact that he was now quite miserable wasn't the point. Arthur was neglecting him.

They had been attacked not two weeks ago, at the Wall. Woads from the north had caught them off guard, and they did not go down in defeat without taking a few precious lives first. One of these had been a girl by the name of Rhea, the first girl Lancelot had ever seen Arthur love. She had been out in the fields, picking wildflowers, when the blue people had come. The people of the Wall knew enemies lay on both sides of their home, but the north was significantly safer than the south, which risked encounters with the Saxons. None of the knights knew why the Woads had come, but it didn't matter to Arthur in the least. All he had cared about was Rhea, and he hadn't spoken to anyone since her death, with the exception of orders. This was why Lancelot was sitting here, ill. They had gone after the Britain natives, and Lancelot couldn't remember the last time Arthur had ever gone on a revenge mission.

He knew he was being childish. He should understand Arthur's pain. He had never been in love himself, but he knew well enough how much his captain had adored the girl. Arthur was a very quiet, introspective person, and one could only tell he had loved her by watching the way his eyes softened on her. He had never mentioned her to the knights, and they had never asked. But trying to hide something amidst the Round Table was about as futile as trying to make Lancelot admit when he was wounded. They had each come to possess the ability to read each other with a remarkable intuition, concerning emotions, health, and erotic achievements. Lancelot could sense everything about Arthur, and Arthur could sense too much about Lancelot, in the Sarmatian's opinion. As for what the knight currently concluded about his captain, it wasn't hopeless and therefore without precedent. He wished he could put his arms around the Roman and make the pain dissipate, but Arthur was in a state that such a notion seemed the equivalent of touching an open wound.

He only lifted his eyes when Arthur approached, his head still bent toward the flower. His captain did not look at him, of course. He only plopped down onto another boulder, beside his knight and still not close enough for Lancelot's comfort. His hopeless expression did not change, and Lancelot only glanced over at him for a second before returning to his observation on the petals, his shoulders caved in despondency. Silence passed through them with leftover snow floating unnoticed. The Sarmatian wanted to question why Arthur had come and disturbed him if he wasn't going to speak, and he almost wanted to seize the Roman by the shoulders and shake him. Why did he care so much about that woman? Why couldn't he have just bed her once and moved on, like the Sarmatian had done with so many other women before? Why did he have to become emotionally attached? Because Arthur was noble, the knight answered himself, and noble men do not take so many lovers without taking their heart to the bed also. It was foolish of them. Emotion-driven people were fools. That was all. Only a fool would willingly give himself to pain and despair. You couldn't do it in this world, not when death was the ultimate keeper of them all. Lancelot had always known this, and that's why he never got attached to anyone outside the Round Table. Even that was unwise, since the knights were more prone to death than civilians. He had given his heart to Arthur, the day of his pledge, and that was enough. If only it had been enough for Arthur.

Lancelot got to his feet, tired of the silence and the negligence, and began to trudge away to find a new place for solitude. But Arthur called out to him, asking him to wait, and Lancelot stopped where he was, back still turned on the Roman. "Stay," Arthur said.

"Why?" Lancelot replied. "So you can wallow in someone else's presence and say nothing?"

"No. I want to talk to you."

"Oh, now suddenly you want to talk. Why must everything be done on your timing, Arthur?" The knight had turned around, almost regretting his words at the sight of Arthur's defeated face.

"I know I've been difficult these past few weeks. You probably can't understand - "

"I understand what it's like to lose someone, Arthur. I'm not as empty-hearted as you think."

"I never said you were," Arthur defended wearily. "But to my knowledge, you've never been in love."

"But I have loved," the knight confessed, his cloak swaying with his steps as he neared his captain. "Does that love mean anything to you?"

"I have returned it, have I not?"

"I'm not so sure. I can never know with the way you half-ignore me in favor to your God and to your own thoughts. Perhaps the others don't mind so much because they all have their own pairs, their own other half. But you are mine, Arthur, _my_ friend."

"When have I ever made it seem that I didn't consider that true?"

"Whenever you shut me out," Lancelot said darkly and sat down in his place again, this time looking at the Roman. "You say you were in love with the girl."

"I was."

"Fine. So you were. And if that is true, how could you not let your friend help your with the grief once she had been lost?"

"That is not your burden to bear," Arthur said, as he stood and began to brisk away. But Lancelot followed him this time.

"All of your burdens are mine to bear," he retorted from behind Arthur. "There isn't a knight here who wouldn't go to hell for you, Arthur. We never let you bear anything alone."

"This isn't the same. You can't share what you do not understand."

"What is there to understand?"

"I was in love with her, Lancelot!" Arthur shouted, spinning around with wide eyes. Lancelot said nothing at the sudden outburst, and his captain only stood heaving. "I was in love with her," he echoed in a quieter tone. "And I came too late."

"Arthur, no," Lancelot exclaimed at once, taking his friend by the shoulders. "It wasn't your fault. Don't ever think it was your fault." But the Roman only stared at the ground with his faded gray eyes.

"I was too late."

"You didn't know," Lancelot almost yelled, shaking him slightly. "You could have never known. She was already gone when we arrived." Lancelot pulled Arthur into his arms, and the Roman's gray eyes peeked out from against his knight's shoulder, staring numbly into empty space. "You didn't know," Lancelot whispered. They stood together in the white clearing, snow still falling in unnoticed silence, and Lancelot felt the cold seep into his lungs with his eyes closed, relieved to have Arthur again.

"You're sick," Arthur said simply, his emotions undetectable in his tone. Lancelot grinned at his captain's late realization and began to stroke Arthur's back with his gloved hand. The Roman's arms didn't move from Lancelot's waist for a long while, as he felt the numbness in his lungs begin to melt away at Lancelot's hand.

"We should go home." It came as a surprise to the Sarmatian, since they had not yet taken vengeance on the Woads, who they had been pursuing for two weeks now. "You can better rest at home, in a warm bed. We still have the journey back, so we best not go any farther."

"Arthur, you know the only bed I'll take is one with a woman in it." And Arthur managed to smile for the first time since the incident.

"If we leave now, chances are you'll survive but worsen before we get to the Wall, what with this damn winter. I don't think you'll be up for women for a few days at least."

"Why Arthur," Lancelot began. "I'm always up for women." Arthur turned his head, his brow resting against the Sarmatian's sharp jaw, nuzzling into him because of the knight's love-proclaiming arms and the way they were wrapped around him.

"I'll make you soup if you promise to rest for a few days." Lancelot chuckled.

"You couldn't cook if you tried," he said fondly. "That's why Galahad is the appointed bitch."

"He does make a lovely stew," Arthur smirked. "Not quite a good as Vanora."

"Yes, I'll take my soup from her, thank you very much."

"Well, could I least bring it to you as reason for you to rest?"

"You can spoon-feed me if I'm delirious enough," Lancelot scoffed.

"Hopefully, it won't come to that," said Arthur. They drew apart, and Arthur puzzled Lancelot by shedding his scarlet cloak. The Sarmatian whined in protest when the Roman placed it around his knight's shoulders, another layer over the Lancelot's own black cloak, but they continued back to camp with Lancelot defeated into wearing it for extra warmth anyway. With Rhea's smile still in mind, Arthur jabbed his finger into Lancelot's sensitive spot, somewhere in his side.

"Ah, damn you," the knight cursed, before chasing his captain away.

The flower lay in the embrace footprints.


End file.
